


Hope for the Uruk

by Grondfic



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Unusual relationship(s), M/M, slash (Shagrat/human whose identity becomes slowly apparent). Violent sex. Orc-talk.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds …</p><p>Warnings: slash (Shagrat/human whose identity becomes slowly apparent). Violent sex. Orc-talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caged.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The Orc was clearly damaged. It was a big specimen, heavily muscled and fearsome in tooth and claw; but it was slumped in a corner of its cage. Its breath came in great irregular snores, and the one eye that regarded us was dull and bloodshot.

“It’s hurt.” I said, displeased.

The nearside-guard shrugged. For a Gondorian, he looked remarkably Orc-like himself.

“Captain said they wouldn’t have caught ‘im otherwise, yer worship.” he informed me.

“Captain Faramir’s the best. If ‘e couldn’t, no-one else could.” added his mate from the darkness by the door.

“Prince.” I said absently.

“Wot?”

“Prince!” I was irritated now, “PRINCE Faramir of Ithilien.”

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot.” the guard mumbled a bit more - semi-audibly, “Steward was good enough for ‘is father. Why’d that fucking nobody of a ranger have to turn up ‘ere changin’ stuff? And ……. “ his complaints stopped as I stared him into silence.

I noted that not ALL the people had said “Yea!” with one voice at the recent coronation after all. The Council should perhaps be warned.

I held out my hand imperiously.

“Keys!” I said. “Then you can go.”

“But yer worship … “ he paused, “yer can’t surely wanna go in there wiv ‘im? ‘E’s woild. ‘E’ll eat yer soon as lookit yer.”

“It’s chained, isn’t it? Besides, if it’s hurt it must be attended. Get some hot water and bandages immediately.”

They exchanged glances, swallowed any further `buts’ and left, shaking their heads. The set of their shoulders informed me clearly that if I was going to get my silly head bitten off, it wasn’t their responsibility.

I stepped around the big cage to light more cressets. The Orc (1)regarded me balefully, eyes blinking in the increased light.

“Those farkers got the right idea, little Tark(2) .” it rumbled suddenly.

“About what?”

“ `Abaht wot? ’(3) “ it mimicked savagely, “About me of course. I WILL farking eat you if you come anywhere near playing Mighty Healer with me!”

“You won’t.” I said confidently, “That arm is broken and laid open to the bone. It needs attention. And there’s a hole in your side big enough to put a man’s fist in. The King wants you alive. You’ll accept my healing whether you will or no.”

“An’ who’s going to farking make me? Farking Tarks! Think they own the farking world!”

“We do now.” I reminded gently.

“Not while there’s an Uruk left alive you farking don’t. And there are, little Tark, plenty of us.”

“How many?”

“Ah-har har. Sharp, ain’t we? Think I don’t see what your farking game is, you little shite? Cosy-up to the Uruk and he’ll be so farking grateful he’ll sing to you for free. Nah. Forget it. Information comes at a price – same as everything.”

“Alright.” I replied equably, “You can pay for the healing that way.”

“You charging me for farking hot water? `Cos I won’t have any truck with that stinky herb I can smell in your belt-pouch. I’ll do me own farking healing.”

“How?”

“You think we’re animals, don’t you? Farking Tarks! We got our own methods, we have! Give us me sword-belt and I’ll sort it.” seeing me hesitate it spat through the bars at my boot, and added “No need to do the sword if you’re too farking scared. Just the belt and pouch. I need me britches too. You’ve been admiring me farking assets long enough!”

Bending to retrieve its possessions, I devoutly hoped that it had missed my blush. I had indeed found my eyes straying to its groin, where its flaccid cock seemed strangely textured and curved in a somewhat curious fashion. I hadn’t been able to resist wondering how it would look when fully erect.

I shoved the belt – minus its sword – through the bars and followed it with the badly-cured leather breeches. I noted that they were worn hair-side inwards, and wondered how Orcs survived a long battle without running quite mad.

The Orc fiddled its pouch open one-handed, finally extracting a rough ceramic jar and coarse iron needle, ready-threaded. Then it laboriously unhooked a skin bottle of some liquid, from which it immediately took a hefty swig.

“Ahh-har! Orc-draught! Nothing like it for putting backbone into yeh. Now then … “

“Stop!” I shouted horrified, as the Orc poised its needle high, preparatory to stabbing down into the wound in its own side, “At least wait for the water. And you can’t do that one-handed. Listen – I’ll make a bargain. No questions. No information asked or given; if you’ll just let me help with that needle!”

It stopped and regarded me quizzically, head to one side like a cat.

 

“Well, you’re one soft fool.” It observed at last, “What’s your little King going to say? AND you’ve given the game away. You won’t be putting the screws on me if you’re too farking soft to stand me and my needle. This is going to be more fun than I thought.”

Fortunately the two guards reappeared at that moment, saving me from any reply. The Orc was, of course, right. I never had any intention of using methods that it would know only too well in order to extract the information that we needed. Yet, if not, why keep it here in this dank cavern beneath the catacombs?

Under the guards’ watchful eyes, I finally unlocked the cage. The Orc was shackled by one leg to an extremely short chain that would not reach the door. I took the bowl from one guard, slung the cloths over my shoulder, and stepped through.

“So we meet at last.” It commented, “I may still eat you, you know.”

I ignored its sudden teasing tone, and gestured both guards around behind the back of the cage.

“If you touch me, they’ll have you through the bars.” I pointed out.

“That” it said reproachfully, “is farking cheating. Give us that water if you really want to help.”

“Why?”

“That’s my farking business. No questions, you said. Come here if you dare, little Tark. Give us the bowl and do your stuff with the needle, before you faint away.”

I approached the Orc, estimating that on its feet it would stand about a head taller than me, and was half again as broad. At present it was slumped on an old paliasse that had been provided by way of bedding. It reached out its one good claw and grabbed the water-bowl without further ceremony, dropping the needle carelessly onto the shadowed floor as it did so. Fortunately I’ve always had quick reflexes, so was able to mark its descent and retrieve it without trouble.

“Ah-har! The little Tark can see in the dark.” It mocked.

“You’re trying my patience, Orc. What now?”

“No questions! Anyway, it’s farking obvious what I’m doing.”

It upended its flask and allowed a good dollop of Orc draught to fall into the water. Then, grabbing one of the cloths, it began carefully washing its side and then its arm.

“Now, Tark, if you’re really going to farking embroider me, you’d best get to it.”

The chain clanked dully as the Orc shifted laboriously to lie flat. I gestured to the nearest guard to bring torches nearer to the bars so that I could see to work.

Close up, the Orc’s musk was overpowering. Its skin was clammy to the touch and, as I worked, great beads of sweat gathered on its face and torso. Its smell changed too, becoming more acrid. Though it gave no outward sign – not so much as a flicker of its eye or shiver in its flesh – it was clearly fighting the pain.

The operation seemed to take forever, but it was over at last. The Orc roused itself to insist that I slather on some noisome goo from the jar it carried. The stuff made my fingers sting as I applied it, but it seemed to give the Orc some relief. I bound its arm too, thought it would have protested. It had drunk what remained of the Orc draught, and now its spirit (if it had one) seemed to flicker low.

Or so I thought until, bending to tie the final bandage around its thick torso, I felt a light touch, the furtive scratch of a claw, on my nape in the shadows where the guards would not see.

“Manskin!” it muttered, “You’d eat sweet, Tark. Or make a good pair of boots. But” suddenly its voice was very close to my ear beyond the guards’ hearing “I’ll wager you’d fuck sweetest of all. Now there’s a pretty bargain for an Uruk to sing to. Your sweet arse for information. Think about it, little Tark, whilst I heal.”

Then it rolled over onto its good side, and would not speak again.

Notes:

(1) Uruk/Orc: Shagrat refers to himself as Uruk in LOTR (it’s just the Orcs’ word for themselves). It’s P Jackson who has “specialised” the term “Uruk-hai” to mean the large breed of Man-Orc bred by Saruman for the War of the Ring. Smaller Orcs (and inferior persons generally) are known as Snaga (“slave”).

(2) Tark: is an Orkish derogatory term for a person of Numenorian descent (from Common “Tarkil”).

(3) Cod-Cockney: In both LOTR and in the films, the Orcs talk a version of the Cockney dialect (ie. London-talk). You are unlikely to hear it spoken so badly in real-life London. Both Tolkien and Jackson use the exaggerated “music-hall” or “stage” version of Cockney (“mockney”). I have followed the Tolkien/Jackson line by way of homage (and because it’s fun).


	2. Caged.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds 

I left orders for the captive Orc to be fed and watered, but resolved to go near it no more. Someone else could be found to question it, I thought, and maybe dispose of it afterwards. There would be plenty of work for me in Minas Tirith with the rebuilding, and the influx of great folk, without worrying about nests of Orcs or any information that one stray Uruk could provide. I did, however, raise the subject briefly with the Prince of Ithilien during one of his frequent visits to the city.

“We apprehended it near the mouth of Imlad Morgul.” reported Faramir in his precisely-modulated high-Numenorian, “It had previously immolated several of its lesser fellows and, by its own account, had led a squad sent out to apprehend it directly into Torech Ungol. What wicked deed it had accomplished in order to merit custody, it did not deign to disclose! I trust it proved a satisfactory specimen of its kind.”

“Recalcitrant in the extreme.” I admitted, “But I suppose we shouldn’t expect anything different. Interrogating an Orc and expecting co-operation is a slightly forlorn hope.”

“I’m sure Anborn would be very willing to render any aid you might require. I find him an excellent interrogator with a variety of techniques at his disposal.”

“Thank you, Prince, but the fewer people who know about this, the better.” I sighed, somehow unable to bring myself to order someone else to do what I knew I could not, “I suppose I shall have to try with it again.”

So it was that I bent my reluctant steps down the hidden stairway beneath Rath Dinen again some days later.

“Took your farking time, didn’t you?” I was greeted, “Well I’m glad you’re back. Those two farking Snaga that you left me with, won’t muck me out. They even throw me farking food through the bars with a farking shovel!”

I looked from the two guards fidgeting at the outer door to the bulk of the Orc in its cage. In spite of myself, my lip twitched.

“How many times did you offer to eat them, Captain?” I asked.

“Only once or twice, and any farking idiot would know I didn’t mean it! ‘Ere – what did you farking call me?”

“Could we possibly dispense with the bad dialect imitation? You’ve been deliberately talking like a Snaga, Captain. Fortunately, Master Samwise was able to give a fairly good description of you.”

The Orc stuck out a greyish-pink tongue, cleaned its nostrils and then investigated the pit of each ear ruminatively.

“Didn’t think you’d tumble to me so soon.” it finally admitted.

“You’re quite famous, you know. Captain Shagrat of the Tower of Cirith Ungol.”

“Famous for what?” it spat, “Losing my command to a couple of little Shire-rats, that’s what! Well, it was all that bastard Gorbag’s fault. I’m glad I stuck him – yes – and tasted his blood too! And what thanks did I get from the Big Bosses in Lugbúrz after I’d saved the swag from Gorbag’s farking … beg pardon – FUCKING looters? Death by Shelob for failure in command! Lucky I knew the pass and the fucking escort didn’t!”

“So you weren’t at the Barad Dur when it fell?”

“What do you fucking think? Nothing came alive out of Lugbúrz. Anyway – no questions, remember? Not unless you wanna bargain.” it leered at me through the bars.

I’d hoped that my piece of detection in finding its identity would demonstrate that I had other ways of gaining information, and that Shagrat might therefore volunteer more. Clearly I’d underestimated it. As if sensing my thought, it grinned at me, showing teeth like a decayed stone circle.

“Time to talk, little Tark.” it said.

“Alright – we talk.” I turned to the guards, “Leave the keys and wait outside.”

This time they didn’t even attempt argument, throwing the keys in my direction and slouching out with barely-concealed insolence.

“You should get those two flogged.” suggested the Orc, “Are you going to join me in this fucking cage? Dare you, without their paltry little stickers at my back?”

“Yes. But I shall stay by the door beyond your reach – purely as a precaution.”

The Orc gave a great windy sigh, engulfing me in a warm carrion reek.

“Listen to me, little Tark.” it said with unusual seriousness, “You need to know a thing or two about us Uruk. There’s stuff that we know by taste, and smell, and hearing that you don’t. I could tell you straight out what those Snaga are saying behind that door – only you don’t wanna hear. And when they’re in here I can smell their fear – that’s why I may have played with them a bit. But you, now. You’re a bit of a puzzle. Can’t place you at all. But I know – and you know, don’t you? – what I smelled on you. Not fear or disgust. No. What you felt when you saw me without me britches was curiosity. So I called you on it, and you thought I wouldn’t see you change colour away in the shadows there. Then – when you showed you weren’t going to put the screws on me – even a little – I knew I had a bargaining counter. So ask away – all you wanna know. Just the one price for the answers.”

Choice. The whole of human life is about choice. Only time tells which choices are the life-changing or life-destroying ones. I took a very deep breath and plunged into a very dark sea.

“Conditions!” I said, “Three of them.”

The Orc’s eyes half-lidded. Its long tongue flicked across its wide distorted mouth, and its ears lost their droop, becoming sharp and erect like Shadowfax in full flight. Its musk, always present amidst the dank cave-smells, came at me in great overwhelming waves.

“Name them.” it sounded deep in its chest like discordant music.

“Firstly, I ask the questions, and if I think you’re lying when you say you know an answer, I proceed no further.”

It nodded slowly.

“Fair.” it conceded, “And … ?”

“Secondly, you don’t eat me anyway, afterwards.”

“You have me confused with Shelob, little Tark. And ….?”

I paused. After the third condition, there could be no going back.

“Spit it out!” encouraged the Orc.

“You don’t leave marks on me where other people can see.”

“Ah-har har! So maybe your new little King cares about what happens to you after all! I can’t place you, Tark. They’ve given you this job either because they couldn’t care less what happens to you; or because it’s so important and secret that only you could do it. You intrigue me, human. And I like your lack of fear! Go on now. Ask your questions. Of course you’ve no guarantee at all that I’ll keep your conditions – but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

It would be a matter of trust, then.

“Isildur!” I said, “I want to know if there are any traditions amongst your people as to how he met his end.”

“Who?” asked the Orc innocently, “Oh – you mean that fucker who started all this mess with Rings and such. Hmm. That’s about the last question I’d expect. Interesting though. Why’d you need to know?”

“That’s my business, Orc. I’ve asked a question. Can you answer it?”

“Oh yes, I can do that. Orc ambush by the Great River up Gladden-way, wasn’t it? We lost a lot of lives in that one – and all for no reason as it turned out. The Dark Lord was dead – relatively speaking. I’ll tell you more … later if you want.”

The little it had said corresponded with our own sparse traditions. Isildur’s squire Ohtar had indeed reported many Orcs killed before Isildur’s small party had been overwhelmed at the Gladden Fields.

“Agreed.” I responded curtly, and, unlacing my loose grey robe, dropped it to pool at my feet.

“Thought you’d see it my way.” rumbled the Orc complacently, as I finally took the two steps that would bring me within its long reach.

It immediately grabbed my upper arms and held me, letting me feel its superior strength. Out of courtesy I made a show of trying to pull away, and its wide mouth stretched in a rictus of amusement as it demonstrated that I was going nowhere.

“I like the way you play, Tark. Beautiful Tark.” it pulled me forward so that its bulk was between me and the door, “Now stay still while I shuck me britches.”

“Let me.” I heard myself say.

That did surprise the Orc. Its craggy eyebrows quirked, and it gave a great bellowing laugh.

“Seems I underestimated the effect of curiosity.” it said flirtatiously, taking its claws from my arms, “Go ahead by all means.”

The Orc had sensibly split one side-seam of its breeches, partly because the wound had been on that side, and partly because of the shackle on its leg. I moved closer within the range of its disproportionately long arms and leaned in to reach the knotted laces at waist and knee. As I did so, I felt the Orc’s claws rake my naked back. Its bulk was bent over me. Its long tongue followed the trail of fire made by its nails. My breath hitched in my throat, but I kept my fingers steady on the loosening knots.

“Still no fear.” it remarked into my ear, “Pity. I’d enjoy the sweet taste of it on your skin, Tark. It would blend nicely with the salt of the blood.”

The knots loosened, and I knelt to pull the Orc’s breeches clear. This brought my face level with its tumid cock, which now jutted scimitar-like from its thick torso.

As I had suspected, it was textured differently, reminding me somewhat of a cat’s tongue. But if I was not mistaken (and at this proximity that was unlikely), it also sported three lobes at its tip. In fact, I decided, it looked like two cocks melded together, with double width along the shaft, and two slits at its apex. Below it, however swung the regulation number of bollocks. Maybe, I thought wryly, I should not drown after all. Experimentally I ran the tip of my tongue up the length of the shaft before pulling back. The massive organ twitched. The Orc, sighing like a hurricane passing over Fangorn, drew me suddenly upwards against the rough pelt on its chest.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, little Tark.” it observed as it flung me face-up across the rough table beside its paliasse.

This was undeniable madness, and I would surely die horribly before the night was out. What had possessed me to push matters thus far? I stared up in the guttering light directly into the eyes of the Orc, set slightly aslant like those of a cat, and realised that (so far as I could ascertain) they were a clear and incongruous green. It laid one hand flat on my diaphragm, pinning me to the rough wood.

“Don’t move or flinch, Tark.” it warned, just before its free claw descended.

It raked a quadruple line from right shoulder to left hip; then transverse from left to right. The crossing-point left a red grid over my heart. The Orc surveyed its handiwork with satisfaction.

“Very pretty.” it said approvingly, “Last time I tried that, the Snaga wriggled in the middle and put me right off my stroke. I ended up disembowelling her. Pity. I was hoping she’d throw my spawn.”

“Are you boasting, Orc,” I asked faintly, “or merely still trying for a fear-response?”

“Shut the fuck up, Tark! You’re too fucking clever for your own good. At least the Snaga never gave me all this fucking lip!”

It leaned its weight down onto me, so that I could feel its unbelievable cock digging into my lower belly. Its tongue licked along the bloodlines on my torso, then unexpectedly curled with extreme delicacy around each of my nipples. Caught off-guard, braced for pain and suddenly offered pleasure, I gasped. The Orc chuckled, its flash of temper apparently forgotten.

It moved lower, finally spiralling its tongue several times around my now-erect cock. I arched involuntarily, fearing now that I should spill before it revealed what its game was to be. With one fearsome claw it cupped my bollocks gently, whilst the other reached to rub a wet nipple with the ball of its thumb. I could feel nothing of the nails that had earlier rent my flesh. Its tongue pulled me irresistibly to completion with no control or thought possible. I stifled my scream against the back of my hand, as I came explosively into its suddenly-enclosing mouth.

It was off me before I had well recovered, spitting noisily into its hands, then coating its cock. Unstrung, I offered no resistance as it lifted and flipped me onto my belly. A mighty knee opened my legs.

“Now, little Tark,” it said with creamy anticipation, “we can really begin.”

.


	3. Payback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds 

Bent painfully across splintery boards as the Orc parted my buttocks with its claw-tips, I finally felt a spasm of pure terror shoot up my spine and explode in my skull. The Orc, busily lapping at my tight opening with its tongue, before sliding it deep within me (as I had hoped it would since seeing the reach of it), noticed nothing. The terror-jolt brought - as I knew – complete relaxation in its wake. I’d experienced it on the battlefield; and it left me with neither hope nor fear. I’d passed through it into this waking-trance state whilst walking the Paths of the Dead; and again later as the captured corsair-ships touched the Harlond.

The Orc finished coating my insides with spittle. Distantly I waited to be skewered on its mighty cock.

It entered me as gently as a maiden’s kiss, paused whilst I adjusted to its width, and then sheathed itself with one long controlled stroke. Although I was stretched and opened further than I’d ever been, the pain that followed was no worse than I’d experienced with other male lovers before this. The Orc pulled back the length of its shaft and plunged again, establishing an irregular rhythm which somehow caught my elusive pleasure-spot each time. I felt my spent cock begin to rise once more.

Its claws raked across my already wounded back, and it lapped blood like a dog as it thrust deeper into me. Its tongue reached around my side to tease one sore nipple, whilst a hand – somehow once more not clawed – squeezed the other between forefinger and thumb. With its free hand it reached down and began to caress my lengthening cock. I was being jolted out of trance as control slipped once more.

The Orc began a low discordant hum in its throat, and its movement within me became swifter and more irregular. With one hand it gripped my cock convulsively, and, between its other fingers my left nipple began to drip blood as the constriction became unbearable. Its tongue slid clean across me to savour the flow.

I managed to get my elbows onto the table before me, and dropped my head into my folded arms as I came, agonisingly, into the Orc’s cupped hand. I sensed its response to my spasmodic movement, and felt it bite into my shoulder, grabbing my back-hair as, with a muffled sound, it flooded me. Movement stilled, and stars swam in velvet before my eyes.

Perhaps, after all, I had not died. I stared down over the table’s rim to where a noisome bucket displayed its obvious contents. I drew in a constricted breath, feeling the weight of Middle Earth across my back.

“I’ll take that slop-bucket when I go, Orc, and get them to give you a fresh one.” I said hoarsely.

The weight shifted from my back. I was light as air. I moved cautiously; found no impediment apart from the singing agonies in my own flesh. I heard from afar the distant laughter of Shagrat.

“Ah-har har! Tark! Sweet Tark. You should be fucked senseless, and you talk about shit-buckets. And what about the information you wanted?”

“That too.” I agreed, pushing myself slowly upright.

“You earned it Tark. I was going to hold out on you for another quickie, but you earned it fair and square. Phoo! You’re wasted on these Tarks and Cupcakes(1) here. You should be working level three of Lugbúrz where the offduty Nazgûl hang out. You’d make a fortune in red-eye tokens.”

“Too late for that.” I reminded him, stepping cautiously away from the supporting table, and making for my discarded clothes. “Er … Cupcakes …?”

“Sodding elves.” he growled, “I can smell at least one on you.”

“Ah. Yes. There is one Elf in Minas Tirith at the moment.”

Shagrat sniffed again, brow wrinkled.

“Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood? Yeah, thought so. But there’ll be more come midsummer, won’t there, when your little King marries that Cupcake princess and cops all the problems when the Wizards and so-called Wise pull out West on him. Har har – he’s so taken up with the Glory of It All, and the Beren-Luthien bit that he hasn’t seen what’s coming yet!”

“Really?”

“Nah. They’re gonna leave him with all the work of a Dark Lord – but without the Dark Lord’s methods. They’ve dumped everything – Everything! He’s supposed to be High King of Gondor AND Arnor, without the help of Imladris and the fucking Golden Wood, OR any of the Wizards. And on top of that, he has to deal fairly with Khand, Harad and what’s left of Mordor. I tell you, Tark, He’s royally fucked!”

“And what would you do if you were him?”

“Call in the Uruk-hai of course! But he won’t consider that – oh no! What – ally with degenerate life-forms? Not on your life.”

“So your advice would be to form an honour-guard of Uruk-hai in the livery of the White Tower?” I murmured, intrigued by the image.

“Ah-har! Get him to do it, Tark, if you’re one of his advisors. They’d appreciate you – really they would. You could make a dishonest fortune!”

I’d stepped back beyond his reach once more. Now I slid the discarded robe over my mauled shoulders and stooped to pull on my boots.

“Isildur!” I reminded him.

“What? Oh, that. Yes.”

He favoured me with an enviably concise account of an Orc’s-eye view of the disaster of the Gladden Fields, speaking as if he had actually been one of the raiding party. It made a fine tale; and I was inclined to believe him. His description of a lost dark silhouette appearing suddenly amidst the swirling waters of Anduin and presenting a shifting target for arrows, was particularly compelling(2) .

“Now Orc, one thing – if you’ll answer a final question.”

“Try me.” he growled.

“Can you be sure that after your people finished firing, and the body submerged, no one retrieved it and had a feast?”

“Ummm. No. That Tark was famous. Any one of our lot would’ve been proud to have ate him. We’d have heard. I’m sure we would. Anyway –“ he snarled, “they would have had to share him with their tribe at the very least. We’d all have wanted a taste of Isildur!”

I supposed I had to believe him. I watched him subside contentedly onto his paliasse and ventured within his reach one final time to grab the bucket from beneath the table. Like lightning, a claw fastened on my leg.

“Before you go, sweet Tark –“

“What?” I asked impatiently. I was beginning to crave hot water, and a surcease from the hurts.

“You might like to consider that I hold the answer to a question you never asked me. I’ll give you the question for free – the answer will cost you the same price.”

I didn’t believe him, but supposed that I had better finish the game since I was so close to the goal.

“Well?”

“You never asked who else we might have seen piddling about in Gladden afterwards! If your little King wants the remains – as I suspect he does – then you should consider that. I can see his point, though. He has to establish a legitimate right to a throne that’s been vacant for nigh-on five hundred years. Finding his forebears and giving them decent burial – and naturally taking any mementos – would be a fine piece of theatre for him. Yes. You think about it, Tark. The Uruk still has a song or two to sing, if you’re willing. Close the door as you leave. You don’t want me catching any nasty diseases – not yet, anyway.”

He was snoring sonorously even before I locked the outer doors.

Notes:

(1) Cupcakes: This is a film-reference. The Orc-extras apparently came up with this name for the Elf-extras.

(2) Isildur’s Death: The story of Isildur’s sorry end can be found in Unfinished Tales, entitled “The Disaster of the Gladden Fields”. I have relied heavily upon it in this and subsequent parts.


	4. Reprise(1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds 

Ten days passed before I ventured below Rath Dinen once again. I had devoted part of each day to further research amongst dusty, brittle scrolls in libraries and record rooms. I had bathed obsessively and privately. I had gone out over Pelennor to watch the muffled squads engaged in burying the stinking detritus of battle. I had kept scrupulously downwind of the keen Elven senses of Prince Legolas. I had spoken again to Mithrandir whose research had been more wide-ranging, but more diffuse, than mine. He had added little to the Tale of the Gladden Fields, except to tell me once again that Master Elrond always remarked on the striking likeness between Isildur’s eldest son Elendur, and King Elessar. I even contemplated taking horse up the Great River to Gladden myself.

None of this was any use. Each night I fell asleep with my hand at my cock, and images of Uruk-anatomy dancing behind my eyelids. People began to look at me askance, and wonder semi-audibly if I was spending too much of myself.

On the tenth day I received an oblique message from the commander of the guard-squad. The Orc’s guards had reported strange behaviour on the part of their charge. I sent for him privately to ask what they meant.

“Well, sir, they say he’s gone wild.”

“He’s an Uruk.” I pointed out.

“Yes, sir, but they say he flies into rages and throws his food at them. They’ll hardly go near him now – except he insists they muck him out regularly.”

“Very commendable!”

“And he’s asked for you, sir, begging your pardon.”

“Hmm. Well maybe he really does have more information. He told me so last time, but I didn’t believe him. I’ve been trying to verify what he did come up with. Very well. Tell the men I’ll be down this evening.”

That night I took with me on impulse, the grey cloak of Lorien which had lain unused in my chest since my arrival. I had no particular desire to go unnoticed by the guards, but it occurred to me to test the Uruk’s claim as regards the keenness of its senses.

The two guards seemed extremely ill at ease, all traces of their former insolence gone. They surrendered the keys with no demur and, at my request, opened the outer door themselves, entering together whilst I ghosted in behind them wearing the cloak.

The Uruk’s naked bulk loomed against the bars, which it rattled balefully.

“What the fuck are you Snaga staring at now?” he snarled, “And where’s that fucking Tark? Did you fuckers pass my message? I told you – I got information. Where I come from you’d be flogged to within an inch of your fucking lives! I heard what you said about him last time, y’know. What if I tell all that filthy stuff you said?”

The guards froze in panic, both sets of eyes swivelling to where I lurked in the shadows.

“Wassa matter now?” asked Shagrat witheringly, “You look like you’ve been caught shitting your britches by …. Wait a minute! I smell Tark! What have you done with him, you miserable fuckers?”

“Leave them alone.” I said, “They’re only doing their job.”

“Where have you been, Tark? Didn’t they tell you I’d asked for you?”

“I’ve had a great deal to do.”

“Oh right! So Isildur takes second place, eh, whilst everyone prepares for the Cupcake princess, and sings lullabies to the shattered Ringbearer? Wish I’d eaten that fucker …. “ it trailed off into vaguely-threatening mutters.

I took off the cloak, and signed to the guards to go. They left as quickly and inconspicuously as two bulky men could do. I came closer to the bars, swinging the cloak behind me.

“Gah! You smell of Cupcake.” accused Shagrat, “Bloody Golden Wood, too. You don’t wanna go near there, Tark, it’s dangerous.”

“What do you want, Orc?”

“Told you before. You want this information, or not?”

“How if I said not?”

“Then you’ll be sorry, that’s all. You – that is, your little King – will wanna know what old Shagrat can tell.”

This was a stupid game. We both knew why I’d returned. I unlocked the cage and slid inside, discarding cloak, robe and boots on the threshold. My breath uneven, I approached the Uruk so closely that our chests were nearly touching.

“So you’ll be wanting to tell me how many times the Uruk-hai saw Saruman the White paddling about in the shallows by Gladden?” I asked.

The Uruk placed one claw-tip delicately beneath my chin and raised my face.

“It was a long-shot with the extra information,” he admitted, “and yet … here you are again, Tark. D’you have a name, by the way?”

“Hope.” I said.

“Hope? What kind of poncy name is that?”

“The one I was given at birth.” I reached forward and touched his massive chest, “What have you been doing to yourself? You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“Threw all my food at those fuckers, didn’t I? Gotta keep in trim …”

“But not starve yourself. You’re an idiot, Shagrat.”

“You don’t look so well yourself, little Tark. Big shadows under your eyes. Wassa matter? Can’t sleep? Or is it too much jerking off eh? I’d like to see that.”

I tilted my head to look up at him, whilst my forefinger found my rampant cock, and ran its length. His massive fist overtook mine and wrapped itself around both hand and cock.

“On second thoughts … “

The claws were gone again. It was a humanoid hand that enclosed me. They must, I thought dizzily, be retractable. He was brisk and efficient, bringing me to completion fast. As before, he coated his cock before bearing me backwards to the paliasse. The table had apparently disappeared.

“I smashed it.” he admitted, noticing my glance, “but this will be better today. They changed the straw.”

The paliasse was admittedly softer than the table, but the straw seemed just as harsh on my still-tender back. Shagrat parted my legs as he had done before, stooped, gathered my knees over his wide shoulders, and reared up on his knees, curling me neatly over myself. A wriggle of the shoulders spread my legs wide, and I felt his sticky cock probe me before I was well ready for him.

His massive head bowed between my spread knees. A hand – claw - snaked from beneath my thigh as he traced red circles around each of my nipples. I tensed as his tongue reached down.

Its touch was warm and soothing. It lapped at the droplets that sprung and spilled across my chest. The mouth descended and suckled. The triple battering ram of his cock made easy conquest of me as I melted to the insidious demands of his lips.

Again I felt those long, controlled movements within me. Torturers make good lovers, then, attuned to each nuance of pleasure as well as of pain. As his hands and tongue and cock meted out generous measures of both, I wished for the agony never to end; the ecstasy to be infinitely prolonged. In the midst of a long life bound entirely by duty, lineage and destiny, it was good now to be subject only to these two simple sensations, and to the transient will of this creature of the dark.

Shagrat pulled back until only the head of his cock remained inside. He reared over me, and for the first time lowered his mouth to mine. His tongue slid past my lips and teeth. He held us both now on some unbearable edge, forever, as it seemed.

His mouth left mine and travelled to my neck. Perhaps he would bite as he came, sending me through completion clear beyond the circles of the world. I felt the slabs of teeth behind his lips against the pulsing vein at my throat, and waited expectantly.

“Estel.” he said into my flesh.

And plunged, throwing us both beyond names and words in a white and foaming flood.

Notes:

(1) Identity: Anyone who has missed the “subtle” clue in the title will discover the identity of Shagrat’s partner-in-crime by the end of Ch 4.


	5. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds 

“Estel!”

My birth-name, called thus softly, recalled me to carefree days when there was no Chief Ranger, no Elessar Telcontar; only the clear voices of the Twins in a crisp Rivendell dawn, calling me to hunt, to wrestle amidst frosty leaf-fall, or play naked in the streams. (Later, of course, I had met their sister, and all games had ceased abruptly).

“Hmmmm?”

Surely this was still night-time. I shifted comfortably, found a thick nipple against my nose, licked it tentatively, and settled back, safely cradled in long arms.

“Estel! You must move, little King. Those Snaga have finished getting into each other’s britches! They’ll be back to check you’re still alive soon.”

I had not died this time either. Stifling a sigh, I pulled up onto one elbow, and looked down at my companion’s craggy features which, in repose, held the impassive and grotesque beauty of ancient stone.

“How long have you known?” I asked.

“Oh, fairly soon, fairly soon, little King. I nearly ate someone who looked a lot like you back on Gladden when Isildur died. It ain’t that difficult to recognise Elendil’s line.”

“Elendur. My uncle at thirty-eighth remove.”

“Well, the Snaga recognised you after last time, so I thought I’d call time on this game. Don’t forget to give the order as you go.”

“What order?”

“To have me killed of course. And then you must get them done too.” he caught my incredulous stare, and added impatiently, “Oh come now! It’s what being a sodding King is all about.”

He was truly expecting to die. I began to laugh, a trifle raggedly.

“You too? Well, since you didn’t oblige me my ripping out my throat, I have no intention of executing you either. We must get you out of here fast. Let me think.”

“Oh fine!” he replied sarcastically, “Take all the time you need so long as it’s the next five minutes.”

“Shut up! If you’re so anxious to die, how is it that I have a gash on my leg caused by your broken shackle-link?”

“Ah. Well. Never said I’d let those fucking pushdug-glob actually carry out the order, did I?”

“So you’re free? Good. How are you at breaking the lock on the cage?”

“Could do it easy as cracking Tark skulls.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Get those breeches on and come.”

Ignoring the singing pains in all my joints, I rose and got my own clothes. Climbing into the loose robe was merely painful. The boots were sheer torture, until his large, capable hands helped me pull them on. He was now dressed, with sword-belt buckled on. He leaped from the open cage to retrieve his curved scimitar from the ground. I supposed that I wasn’t in any worse danger from him than when he was weaponless.

I closed the hanging lock on the door before asking him to snap it, which he did with no more trouble than I would have in cracking a walnut. I hoped it would seem convincing as I dropped it by the open door.

“Here! Put this on.”

“Smells of Cupcake.” he objected.

“So? It blends into its background. It will make you nearly invisible. And the scent will hide your musk. Follow me out, and keep to the shadows. With luck, they won’t see you. I shall lock the outer door as if you’re still inside. When will they next come to check on you?”

“Dawn.” grunted Shagrat taking the grey cloak gingerly and coughing in distaste as he drew it on. “And what the fuck’s wrong with my smell?” he grumbled to himself.

“Your feet show below the hem. Try to keep down!”

Obsessed with visions of a pair of huge feet sneaking past the guards, I nearly forgot to gather up a bit of filthy sacking from the floor as substitute for the cloak on my arm. Taking a deep breath, I flung the outer door open.

The two guards, looking somewhat flustered and dishevelled, spilled out of some recess or other. I felt air move behind me as Shagrat ghosted through the door, so turned back to call into the empty room.

“That’s enough, Orc! Your information was worthless as you well knew. You’ll be going elsewhere soon for stronger measures if you don’t come up with something useful. Think about it!”

I slammed the door with a satisfying crash and locked it with a flourish, tossing both sets of keys back to the guards as I set off up the stone-cut stairs to Rath Dinen. I desperately hoped that Shagrat was following.

“It’s a long way down to Pelennor.” I told the air behind me, “Try to keep up.”

I led the way through the fire-blasted shadows of Rath Dinen, hearing from time to time his heavy footfall behind me. Just before the entrance to Silent Street, I ducked into a small hidden archway where a narrow spiral descended into darkness.

“This will be a long steep climb.” I warned, “Watch where you put your feet. I don’t want you falling onto me, or we may both break our necks.”

“Oh, I shall fall soft, never fear, little King.” I heard him rumble.

It took almost two hours to clamber down the secret stair cut through the solid rock sheer from the citadel to the Great Gate. Twice I was forced to stop and ease my aching limbs. The second time this happened, Shagrat offered to carry me the rest of the way; and thereafter I said no more.

The Gate was, of course, still in pieces following the siege, but a temporary barrier had been set up and manned. The night-watch could be easily identified by their small fire. Beyond, on the Pelennor, the burial work continued stopping neither by night nor day.

I got us out without much trouble once I had revealed myself. We descended into the field, leaving behind us a guard marvelling at my magnanimity in deigning to visit at such an hour. Alas that the motives of great ones can be so misconstrued by the less!

The burial parties were equally grateful at my presence; but showed a disquieting tendency to provide an escort, saying (quite rightly) that all danger was not yet passed merely because the Dark Tower had fallen (“praise to your lordship and the Valar”).

“I can’t stay here long.” I muttered as we finally slipped away beyond a pile of rotting mumak, “Give me the cloak! I shall need it at dawn when I knock those guards flat, and hope they think it was you!”

“Ah-har har! We’ll make a Dark Lord of you yet, little King. So then you can have them executed for letting a prisoner escape?”

“No!” I whispered vehemently, “Then I say it was a difficult assignment which failed through no fault of theirs, split them up and send them to Ithilien and Pelargir.”

“Sha! Fucking soft – you!” it said in disgust as it handed me the cloak. “Well, I’ll be off then. Been nice knowing you. You want me to bring some of the lads for that honour-guard?”

“No thank you!” I shuddered, “G - good luck Shagrat.”

“Yeah, whatever.” And with no further formalities it loped off into the dark.


	6. Cliffhanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds 

Time drew on and the days lengthened. My back healed, and the red diagonals across my chest faded. Only a faint grid remained over my heart to remind me of my nocturnal adventures. I filled my days with kingly doings; and even began to venture into closer proximity to Legolas again. I ignored any niggling aches in my hips, and the empty space in my life.

As May drew to a golden close, Mithrandir began to voice his concerns about the Ringbearer. Frodo’s spirits were not reviving, and his sleep seemed to be tormented by evil dreams.

“He’s suffered greatly.” I pointed out, “Maybe these dreams will fade in time.”

But that evening the whole citadel was roused by his cries. I had retired early, no longer able to bear the rather pointed wedding-night jokes that had been flying around my ears during dinner from the direction of Gimli and the younger Hobbits.

I had hardly assumed a suitable night-robe (midnight-blue Variag silk, embroidered in silver with a stylised Athelas-motif by Ioreth and the Ladies’ Guild of the Houses of Healing), when a high-pitched scream rent the air. Grabbing my dagger, and leaving behind me an enticing bath of herb-scented water, I wrenched open my chamber door. Calling to the two Citadel-guards stationed outside to follow, I hastened in the direction of the growing hubbub.

At Frodo’s chamber-door I almost collided with Mithrandir looking unusually grave; and a pale Legolas, clearly shaken from his composure, bow and arrows slung at his back. From within came the sound of sobbing interspersed with a low soothing murmur in Sam’s unmistakeable tones.

“It’s alright, Mr Frodo, it’s only your Sam. There’s naught here to harm you now.”

“Sam! Help me, Sam.” came Frodo’s broken and halting reply, “They’re coming for me here, now, even in the guarded tower.”

“No, no, Mr Frodo, me dear. They’re all gone – remember?”

“But I thought …. Oh Sam, I was half asleep and dreaming, and I thought …”

“Thought what, Mr Frodo?”

“I thought it was Shagrat, Sam, looking at me through the window. But then I awoke and he turned into you. Ooh ….his eyes and teeth! But Sam, the worst of it was – I dreamed he was wearing the winged helmet of the Citadel Guard. I thought … I thought …. “

Sam laughed, a little unconvincingly it seemed to me.

“Now I know you’re dreaming, Mr Frodo. And see – here’s Gandalf and Legolas, and bless me if it isn’t Strider – Lord Elfstone, I should say – all come to see how you do.”

“A curious dream, Frodo,” I heard myself say distantly, “I think it wouldn’t hurt to transfer my guard to your room tonight – just to reassure you; and check that no one was playing tricks. And maybe, Legolas, you’d be willing to take a look around the battlements with your bow. I agree with Sam that it’s unlikely that any creature of the Dark would come here – especially,” I allowed myself to smile, “in the livery of the Guard, but we shouldn’t take any chances. Sam – you’ll stay with Frodo until he sleeps. Do you want to see what Athelas will do, Frodo?”

“No, no, thank you Strider. I think I shall be alright now. You’re all far too good to me. I’m sorry to be such a frightful nuisance.”

I nodded curtly and headed off, sparing a second to be relieved that I had no need to call on Ioreth and her Athelas-store. (Why was it that older human women seemed to dog my steps in this way, since my sudden elevation to fame? There had even been an unsavoury episode involving some intimate but unwashed undergarments ….. However, now was not the time to ponder this minor mystery)

This, I reflected bitterly as I returned to my room to dress and collect Anduril, was all my fault. I had given free rein to hitherto half-suspected dark cravings, and now my friends were being called upon to pay the penalty. How could I ever have been so stupid as to trust an Orc, let alone allow it to …? And now I would have no choice but to hunt it down behind the very walls of Minas Tirith. The fact that my pulse had begun to beat like a drum in the deep as soon as I heard he was back, was totally irrelevant.

I thrust through my chamber door, the momentum carrying me well inside, before I was caught up short, driven choking to my knees. I was hit by a miasma – a retching, gagging cloud - almost as impenetrable as a wall. The air was saturated with an overwhelming scent, sweet and nauseating as the flowers of Morgul Vale. It seemed that every fragrant oil in the herb distillery had been flung into the heady brew. I could distinguish the deep tones of crimson rose mingling with the wilder essence of elder, the delicate flavour of simbelmynë. Surely there was also a hint of Harad night-scented lily, and the precious cinnamon-bark from far-beyond east. I drew a great crowing breath and staggered backwards to the purer air at the door.

“I could almost get used to this fucking scent-stuff.” announced a familiar voice, “You think I used enough to cover me smell alright?”

“Damn you! Damn you!” I wheezed, “Damn you to the lowest pits of Angband!”

“Been there; done that! And there’s no need to get so fucking personal!” replied Shagrat huffily; then suddenly turned cajoling – “I know you’re angry, little King, but I had to get those fucking guards away from your door, and you away from here long enough to get in. Now be reasonable – you must see that!”

I looked up through streaming eyes to see his familiar features peering through my bed-curtains. The winged helmet of the Citadel-guard, much too small to fit, was perched precariously over his drooped ears.

“Nice things you got here.” he remarked breezily, “I know good stuff when I see it – looted enough in my time. I wouldn’t say no to your sword. Straight-bladed, of course, but well-balanced. Cupcakes make the scabbard, did they? Yeah, thought so.”

“Shagrat!” I interrupted his flow without ceremony, “What the … the Fuck are you doing back here?”

“Ah-har har! You’ll be doing Orc-talk like a pro before you know it! Miss me, did you, little King?”

I wiped my eyes across the back of my hand and stood. The overpowering scent-cloud had dispersed somewhat, but I still felt dizzy and light-headed.

“Move!” I said waveringly, “I need to sit down.”

His head vanished, leaving me space to plunge through the bed curtains. I found him stretched out comfortably, occupying most of the space.

“Like the bed too.” he rumbled, “Much more room than the fucking guest-facilities downstairs. You want wine? I liberated some from around the place somewhere.” he paused, then suddenly added, “I missed you, anyway.”

“Is that why you’re back?” I asked sitting beside him on the bed.

“That;” he admitted, “an’ a few things I wanted to say. I got angry before – nearly fucking killed you, if you must know – but I thought a bit, and came back to say ‘em anyway.”

“You say you’ve missed me, and you’re proposing to TALK? Come on, Shagrat, you can do better than that!”

“Ah-har! Getting into the habit of command are we? Then may your ‘umble servant suggest you bar the door.”

“Yes, maybe you’re right.”

I scrambled up and did so, settling back beside him on the bed thereafter.

“You want me to tear this flimsy stuff off you?” he asked obligingly, “or are you gonna get up and give me the full show like you did downstairs?”

“Tear it off!” I replied recklessly, caught up at that moment in a spirit of total abandonment, “To the Black Pits with it all – Ioreth, Athelas, Variag silk, Cupcakes and kingship!”

His claw, halfway to my silk robe, stopped suddenly. To my absolute horror, a voice – not his own – spoke through his reluctant and distorted lips, in a higher and more refined register; and in a language I could barely recognise as some primitive form of Old Quenya –

“Do not” it said “so lightly invoke what you do not understand!”

“What?” I gasped.

”Once-born, do nor mock! And consign not to - Those Places - the innocents who deserve it not!”

His green eyes were glazed and sightless. He loomed over me like a mountain-range. His tears fell onto my breast in slow, scalding drops.

“Before Sun and Moon were the blessed stars. Sweet, and sweet were the Waters of Awakening in the days before Anor and Ithil, when this Fëa had another name, and sang for joy of Wilwarin and the yet-unnamed Valacirca!”

What the Wise believed concerning the origin of Uruks was true then(1). This soul was many ages old, had been an Elf in the twilight times, and had seen Arda before the lands were broken – aeons before my kind had walked them. How had it come to be what it now was? Imagination failed me; and I could not but be glad that it did. A word sang inside my skull, and, under some compulsion I only half understood, I said it aloud.

“Phuineől(2) .”

“Eh?” he blinked down at me and shook his head as if to clear a gadfly, “Did ya want this torn off or not?”

“No” I replied tremulously, “I’ll do it.”

“Nice! I liked it when you gave me that half-desperate, half-determined look downstairs, just before you dropped your robes. Big turn-on, that.”

“You’ve taught me more about myself since then. And -” I managed to sound nonchalant. “about you.”

“Me? What’s to know? Except I like a bit of blood with my sex. But then, little King, so do you, don’t you?”

“I do.” I admitted, “But .. since I’m to be married come Midsummer Eve, I’d be grateful if you don’t leave any obvious marks.”

“Fucking she-Cupcake!” Shagrat was infuriated, “I’d like to carve my name across your fucking backside and rub in some Orc-ointment for a lasting effect! Just so’s SHE’LL know I’ve been there first! Skai!” he added as I broke into instant cold sweat, “NOW I get a fear-response! Got you right under their fucking thumbs, those Cupcakes, haven’t they?”

“You don’t understand, Shagrat!” desperately I tried to explain what was not, at this moment, very clear to me, “ She’s been my motive for all I had to do, throughout this long quest. She was to be the recompense for all the thankless days and nights I’ve spent pretending to be Faramir’s grandfather’s liegeman; or Thengel’s swordthain; or Mithrandir’s hard-man for that matter.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever! I told you before, they got you royally fucked, little King, and I was right!”

“Shagrat! I HAVE to do this. It’s part of being King of the West!”

“So why was it you had that really strong wish I’d kill you at the end of last time? (It’s a great way to go, by the way, I done it a coupla times). But you, now. You wanted out – your only chance on Arda too – because you were feeling fucked up about that Cupcake!”

“Elrond said she should not diminish her life’s grace …”

“Fucking Cupcakes! That’s just his poncy way of saying she’ll die once, and go somewhere he can’t control. Listen – they got you doing all their work here. One Cupcake princess bearing your spawn is the very least they could fucking offer. Little King, when I came back here, I was going to make you an offer. I’m gonna travel a long ways north and east of here. You wanna come-with?”

“What?” I asked incredulously, raging flames warring with duty in my gut.

“I thought you might like an Out on all this. Them Tarks think you’re a fucking uncouth backwoodsman anyways – all them that don’t wanna get into your britches that is – they think you talk funny. Even those Snaga who were supposed to guard me said so – and them Orc-bred in the ninth generation! I got a quest of me own. I’d like you along with me, but ….. “

“Oh Varda! Yes! Where will you go – north and east? Back to Cuiviénen? Oh Phuineöl, yes. Back on the roads and close to the earth. Anywhere!”

“WHAT DID YOU FUCKING CALL ME?”

“Shh! You’ll have the guards onto us! I heard it in my head just now. Isn’t it your real name?”

“Yeah,” he said, staring, “Yeah it is. Did I … did I mention the Waters of Awakening as well?”

“Yes. Just after you rebuked me for loose talk about the Black Pits.”

“Skai! Then the trip’s off, little King. I’m sorry. No, I’m more than sorry; I’m fucking scared. That’s our Sign, you see - those of us from the Twilight Times. When it’s our time to die, we get that reminder. The Dark Lord’s way of rubbing it in just how far we came from the Stars and the Water. It’s me for the Black Pits! Or maybe not. I dunno any more.”

“What do you mean, Shagrat?”

“There ain’t no Dark Lord any more, is there? And the Black Pits are all laid bare. So where do we go now – us lost souls they used to throw back into a new updated body each time we died?”

“You mean ….”

“Yeah. The Great Dark Lord – Him before Gauthaur(3) – was a rebel Vala. So he set up his own private Hall of Mandos for any Fëa that served him. Gauthaur always dealt with the physical stuff – breeding the bodies and so on. When the Great One went, Gauthaur just took over the system – and became the Red Eye in time. But maybe this time …. Just maybe it’ll really be the Hall of Mandos for old Phuineöl! That’ll be a turnup! Don’t know what to hope – OR fear, and that’s the fucking truth!”

“But-but … you aren’t going to die!”

“Die or be killed, little King. It’s all the same. Maybe I won’t get out of here alive. Took a big risk coming back. I won’t have time to round up your honour-guard either. That’s really why I came back. I was so fucking angry that you made that suggestion, and then didn’t take it seriously, that I went off on one last time; hoofed it before I really lost it and killed you on Pelennor. I wanted … I wanted to see if the few of our kind left among the Uruk could maybe … “

“Maybe turn themselves around and earn some kind of redemption?”

“Yeah, something like that.” he mumbled, shamefaced. “It was just a thought ….. “

“It’s a good one. Stay alive, Shagrat, and bring me my honour guard. I’m not sure what I shall want them to do …. But, if I’m going to have to be King of the West, that’ll be my decision, won’t it? Now – are we going to .. to … make love, or not?”

“Well, I’m gonna fuck you, if that’s what you mean. Making love’s something Cupcakes do, sometimes for days on end. But you probably know that already. Can’t do anything without a load of song and dance! You gonna strip for me, then? I won’t make any promises about the marks – I may get carried away – but I’ll do me best!”

“I don’t suppose” I said as I got up and let the silk slip from my body like a whispered kiss, “that I shall grumble very loudly after all, if you do.”

“That’s my little King!” he replied enthusiastically, leaning forward to the length of his long arm to grab and pull me sprawling across his thick torso.

His arms wrapped me securely to him. It felt like coming home. I knew then that whatever She might mean to me – which was a great deal – I would always crave the absolute childlike safety and danger of this moment. If She was to be the badge of my achievement; the mark of my honour; the crowning of my labours here – then He would forever be the benchmark of what I had sacrificed in order to be here on this lonely pinnacle of command without control; of responsibility without power.

He settled me above him so that our noses were almost touching.

“You’re down to do all the work tonight, little King.” he breathed like a seductive hurricane, “You up for that?”

“I thought I might just lie flat whilst you flayed the skin off my back, as usual.”

“Not this time, little King. You don’t get off so easy. This may be my last ever fuck, so I reckon I’m entitled to a bit of your sweat!”

I sat up astride his wide waist, agitation limpening my cock.

“Don’t keep SAYING that! We’ll get you out of here alive afterwards!”

“So you say, little King; so you say. We’ll see. Here, look – I saved this. It’ll make a nice change from our usual spunk’n’spit routine.”

“I LIKED the…… “

“Ah-har har. Always so fucking unexpected – you! But no – tonight it’s essence-of-lilies-of-Mordor-Vale for a real exploration of your dark side! Gerroff me a minute, while I get it sorted.”

Reluctantly I moved off him to let him coat his cock in the rather odd-smelling oil. At his instigation, I turned to give his slick and questing fingers access to my tight opening. He was expert at that, too. I could come, several times over, just from the attentions of his tongue and fingers, I thought. I spared a dizzy moment of regret that we would not, now, spend whole days and nights on some unexplored north-eastern trail in such dalliance.

Once he was done with the oil, he lifted me, turned at set me astride him once again. His cock nudged slyly at my opening. He lay flat on my bed, relaxed but totally aroused.

“Well, little King. Go on.” He encouraged.

For a moment panic closed me in, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do this (rather as I always felt whenever I contemplated my wedding-night). Then his claw raked my belly in a gentle, long stroke, barely breaking skin; and all of me opened to him. I sank down, taking the full length of that fearsome cock deep inside. Once more I felt the sense of homecoming. (I would never be able to use this bedchamber again, once I was wed. I must give orders for the State Bedroom to be made ready, after all).

I propped myself over him, my full weight on my arms, and moved experimentally. Sensations engulfed me, and I paused to savour them.

Without warning, a claw slashed my flank, leaving five fiery red lines. I bucked like a horse beneath the spur, and Shagrat gave a satisfied grunt.

“Don’t go all dreamy on me. I’m not some fucking virgin Cupcake.” he warned tartly.

I should, of course, be outraged. Instead I snarled, raised myself to the length of his shaft, and slammed down, dropping my full weight across his thighs.

“Bastard!” I hissed, as claws raked my back, my buttocks, my upper leg; galvanising me at each stroke.

“In-fucking-dubitably!” he gasped as his claw lifted one last time to trace his customary blood-ring on my left breast. Red and white mingled on his chest and belly, as I came. His seed flooded me an instant later, and I collapsed into the welter of blood and semen on his torso, licking my own juices from his swollen nipples.

“If that was really the last one, it was fucking worth a death or two, little King.” came his gigantic whisper in my ear.

“Don’t keep SAYING that!” I murmured languorously, and then, as reality intruded, “We must get you out of here!”

“In good time, Sweet one, in good time. I’m not anxious to rush out there. But (shift over!) I guess it won’t do to lay around here all night. What with all your fucking Snaga, and the Shire-rats and Cupcakes you got – even a Dwarf, I hear – there ain’t enough privacy for old Shagrat to stay around too long. Garn – look at this fucking mess you made on me!”

“You could lick it off.” I suggested, “But if not, there’s a bath of cold water somewhere around.”

“Don’t get too lairy with me, little King. You could still regret it!”

He plunged into the water on the word, spilling most of it over the floor, and scrubbed himself expansively.

“Aah! I could get used to this washing lark. Give us the dry-cloths, and then I must be off. If I get out alive, I promise to try for your Honour Guard. We could work with Dunlendings, Viariag or Corsairs, y’know. AND we’d be happy to clear out any Snaga-nests!”

We both dressed rapidly; he in a somewhat modified version of the Citadel-guard uniform (“I nicked it off a Tark called Beregond. Seems he didn’t need it no more!”); and I in the anonymous grey robe I’d used before, on my visits to the dungeons. As we crept into the deserted corridor outside, I held out the grey cloak of Lorien.

“Here! This is beginning to smell more of you than it does of the Golden Wood. You may need it!”

“You’re GIVING it to me, little King?”

“Well, I can hardly be invisible any more, can I? Now – back to Rath Dinen as fast as we can!”

Fair Ithil, waxing towards Midsummer, was not our friend this time, as we slipped from shadow to shadow in the deserted streets of the Citadel. We entered the dark mouth of Silent Street like fleeing murderers, and I paused at the unobtrusive entrance to the secret stair.

“Come back to me when you can, Phuineől.”

His great claw extended and grasped my forearm.

“My hand – and blood – on the pledge. Good fortune, little King.”

I realised that my hand was wet and sticky. He’d gashed his palm before he touched me. I ran my tongue across the coppery taste, freed myself, and stepped back.

“Blood and sex1 Can’t beat it. Remember that!” he said, and turned into the dark archway.

I heard only a whisper, and felt a disturbance of the air at my cheek. Before my brain could well assimilate what caused it, Phuineöl was gone – pitched headlong down the treacherous stairway, an arrow buried somewhere at his back.

“NOOOO!” I screamed, and sprang down the first few steps in his wake.

My upper arm was gripped in a band of fiery iron and I was pulled unceremoniously back through the shadowed arch.

“Do not!”

“Kinslayer!” I accused hoarsely, and spat full in the Elf’s face.

The Prince of Mirkwood freed me, wiping a hand across his sullied cheek.

“I did what you could not! There is no place for such as he in the New Order.”

“What do you know about it? Cupcake! That was an Elvish Fëa you sent beyond!”

“If that is so, then Mandos will know His Own.”

Legolas was unrepentant. His eyes showed me no censure; and no pity either.

I pulled away, but he would not let me go.

“Leave it, Estel. The Lady Arwen is nigh. Go and sleep; and in the morning all this will be naught but a bad dream.”

“You mean you’ll tamper with my memories so she’ll never find out? No! This Age belongs to me and my descendents; and you May Not interfere!”

“Very well. On your own mortal head be it!”

He released me; and I plunged down the stairs, slipping in the blood on each step.

But, however far down I probed – until dawn reddened the Ephel Duath – there was no sign of anyone; no movement. Only a narrow trail of dotted red, from Citadel to Great Gate – where it vanished without a trace.

Notes:

(1) Orc-origins: The question of Orc-origins is a vexed one in Tolkien’s writings, mainly because he himself modified the original account in Silmarillion on several occasions. However, in that book he states that the “root stock” of Orcs was Elvish, but then implies that successive Dark Lords used various methods to change and diversify the race. The question of where Orcs go when they die is not addressed – except in one very telling line from Gorbag in TTT – “Grr! Those Nazgûl give me the creeps. And they skin the body off you as soon as look at you, and leave you all cold in the dark on the other side.”  
This does not sound to me like instant annihilation, but equally it does not sound like any other “afterworld” that Tolkien describes. So I have inferred a “private” Hall of Mandos created by Morgoth, for all lost Elf-souls (Fëa) who had at the very beginning of Arda. Been corrupted into Orcs. Like the Valinorian Halls of Mandos, the “Black Pits” are here prisons for souls awaiting re-embodying.

(2) Phuineől is my best-shot at a “Cuiviénen” Elf-name. For a brilliant (and extremely detailed) disquisition on Tolkien’s languages, see http://www.ardalambion.com/ “Phuin” (later “Fuin”) means dark or shadowy. Eől is an early elf-name with no given meaning (cf. “Of Maeglin” in Silmarillion). So I INTEND for the name to mean “Shadow-elf” or “Elf of twilight”.

(3) Gauthaur is the name in the First Age of the Maia who later became Sauron.


	7. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon after the fall of Barad-dur, an Uruk held captive in Minas Tirith finds a useful bargaining counter on some information that it holds

“Kinsman,” intoned dark Celeborn, “farewell! May your doom be other than mine, and your treasure remain with you to the end!(1) ”

Hasufel, bored with the length of this leavetaking, shifted restlessly, and began to dig a small hole with one hoof. I stilled my mount, gazing at the retreating backs of my guests as they walked into a brilliant sunset. I would not, I thought, see Elrond or the Lady again; and I had a confusion of feelings about that. Frodo too seemed to me marked for an early departure from Middle Earth; and for him I felt a distant sadness. Already he seemed to have gone beyond the reach of my sympathy or help.

I raised my elfstone-brooch into the light of the sun, by way of farewell, as the party dwindled into the distance. All the people I’d been closest to – save one (save two) – were leaving. And in the meantime, I would never be alone again, surrounded as I was by knights, squires and soldiery. Here they were at my back, even now waiting on my word. We might make camp, I thought, returning to Isengard in the morning, when I could resume my neglected quest for any evidence of Isildur. Or I might do what would clearly be expected – hasten back to Edoras by the most direct route into the arms of my newly-wedded wife.

“Ohtar – tell the men we’ll make camp. There’s a south-facing dell about a half-league away.”

My young squire passed the word, and soon I began to hear the muted sounds of riders preparing to move off. I turned Hasufel’s head from the vast spaces beyond the Gap of Rohan. We walked the horses along the foothills of what, northwards, would become the Misty Mountains, keeping an easy pace, in a loose grouping which could fan out to sweep, or close in under attack, as circumstances dictated. Unfortunately I no longer rode in the van, but at the centre surrounded by loyal knights all sworn to protect me.

Twilight deepened, casting the hills into shadow. When Hasufel spooked, I thought for a split second that he had hit a rabbit hole, before a shout ahead alerted me.

“Uruk!”

Instantly the riders closed in and surrounded me. Only by standing up in the stirrups was I able to catch a glimpse, through a thicket of raised spears, of what the fuss was about.

The betraying movement had come from the mouth of the very dell we’d been aiming for. I could just make out the big figure in the shadows by the white markings on its face, and by the slow waving of some kind of cloth tied precariously to a spear-butt to form a makeshift banner. Then one final gleam of the dying sun caught a flash of green on the fabric, as the Uruk walked slowly into sight.

“Wait!” I yelled, recognising with a jolt the leaf-brooch of a Lorien cloak, “Let me though!”

“But my Lord …..(2) “ began one of the young blond Rohirrim in my party.

“Let me through!” I repeated impatiently, “That’s a signal for a parley.”

“But we don’t …. TALK to Orcs, My Lord!”

“We don’t kill Heralds either, Gymer. Now, for the last time – get out of my way!”

I forced Hasufel through an essentially non-existent gap in the wall of riders ahead of me, my knees gripping his sides like iron, and my hands tight on the gathered reins. Horses spooked to either side; and Gymer’s snub-nosed face veered from the edge of my vision as his mount half-reared.

I reach the lead-line of our formation, and moved between the levelled spears of my knights. Now I could see clearly, unimpeded by my over zealous henchmen. The Uruk was advancing slowly on foot, waving the makeshift banner and bellowing unintelligible words. I raised one hand, and halted my troop.

“Ohtar! Attend me please. I’m going ahead. Have your sword ready and stay behind me. I want two men for escort – yes; you and you. The rest stay back!”

“But My Lord … !

“Gymer! That’s enough. Stay back! There are four of us; all armed. We ought to be a match for one Uruk.”

Ignoring murmurs of “what if it’s a trap?”, I walked Hasufel cautiously forwards, my escort pacing me.

“Truce!” the Uruk was bellowing in execrable Common, “Which one’s da King?”

“Here!” I said, “What do you want, Orc?”

“Come to bring yer honour-guard. And” he mumbled reluctantly, “to ask for ‘elp.”

“Where are they? How many? What sort of help?” I barked, although most of me was screaming a question about where the grey cloak had come from.

He blinked. He was one of Saruman’s new breed of sun-resistant Man-Uruks. The markings on his forehead were the remains of the White Hand badge.

“Got eight of us dat’s fit. We’re camped down dere. Need a healer. ‘Ear tell you’re one.”

I dismounted, hearing behind me a low protesting mutter from all those within earshot. The Uruk towered over me for a moment and then, to my astonishment, went down clumsily on one knee and laid his curved sword at my feet.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Mauhúr(3) . From Isengard. Got two of us. Me and Plurtz(4). Da rest are from all over.”

“Mauhúr!” screamed Gymer, who had somehow managed to get himself to the front of the troop. I want him, My Lord! He .. “

“I’d really rather you didn’t, Gymer. We all have old scores to settle. If I can put mine aside, then so can you.”

The man subsided, muttering in Rohirric. I turned back to Mauhúr.

“You can see that this isn’t going to be easy for any of us. You’d best lead on. Ohtar – send torches up here and ask the vanguard to light theirs too.”

Thus, following Mauhúr and escorted by torches, we entered the dell where Pippin had once gazed into the Palantir of Orthanc. We found a small fire in a far and shaded corner; and the makings of a bigger camp already set up for us under the hawthorn where we had rested on that memorable night nearly five months earlier.

“We laid da wood for yer,” explained Mauhúr, “but we needs yer over our camp, Sharkū(5) .”

What did you call me?”

“Sharkū.” He repeated patiently, “Dat’s … old-man …. umm … Fadder, in your tongue. Name of Elders … leaders … wid us – always.”

“I’ll come. I shall bring Ohtar and the escort.”

But at this, my whole troop raised a shout. I should not trust ANY Uruk! I should not trust THIS Uruk particularly. I should not venture into an Orc-camp in such a foolhardy manner. I should remember Isildur, my forebear, who did not take enough care when travelling, after a big war was presumed over. I should not trust Uruks! Was I … came a whisper from Gymer’s direction ….. a fucking Orc-lover?

“SILENCE!”

I hastily remounted Hasufel , so that I towered over Man and Uruk alike. From this elevated vantage, I could see a small group of Orc-figures gathered around their distant fire.

“You, you, you and you – start the fire here! You – I want water boiled in a large cauldron as soon as possible! You, you and you, are in charge of the horse-pickets. Get to it! Now – any sergeants and commanders-of-ten – to me! GO!!”

The riders dispersed, as any well-trained troop would do automatically on receiving orders. I was left with maybe a dozen officers; older men who had risen as far as they were able; and younger men still hoping for further advancement. It was this group I had to catch and hold – now, before dissidence became something bigger.

“You men can come with me to the Uruk camp. I want them treated exactly as you would treat any defeated Haradrim or Dunlendings – do you understand? We’ve won this war – at great cost to ourselves. Now it’s inevitable that the defeated enemy will start suing for pardon – Uruks no less than Humans. These people are more foresighted than most of the Orc tribes. They’ve noted how the wind’s blowing. Let’s see if they can make good on their oaths.”

I could tell this was making somewhat reluctant sense to some of the older men. They hated it, but were prepared to let it run. They were tired; they’d been at war all their lives. They’d tolerate me and my newfangled ideas for now. And they would reserve the right to turn and savage me the first time anything went wrong. The younger ones were, at worst keen to ingratiate themselves; at best willing to try. I had a ragged consensus, and would have to do the best I could with that. I formed them up into ranks, and made my way over to the Orc camp.

“Shagrat,” I thought, “what have you dumped on me here? This is going too far, too early in my reign. I could end up dispossessed and dead because of you.”

At this depressing point I found myself at the other side of the clearing. Eight figures stood as I approached, and gave several diverse forms of salute; from the fully-extended right arms of the White-Hand Uruks, to the somewhat equivocal two-fingers-to-the-temple variety favoured by the smaller breeds.

“We got as many as could ‘ear da call and wanted to come.” explained Mauhúr, “Dis ‘ere’s Plurtz. Dem two’s bagronks(6) from outa Lugbúrz. Coupla night-maggots from da mountains over dere. Dem udder two is just Snaga.”

“I want everyone’s proper names by daybreak. Not the Snaga and bagronk sort. The ones you all remember from the days-before - at the Waters of Awakening.”

As one, they hissed, covering ears with claws.

“Who needs healing?” I shouted, ignoring their reaction, but resolved not to be moved on this point. If this unpromising bunch were really after redemption, we would have to start somewhere.

Mauhúr, recovering first, waved me on beyond the fire.

“Over dere. You – Snaga – show da Sharkū. And do anyfink ‘e asks, or I’ll ‘ave yer innards fer supper!”

The two smallest Orcs arose, snarled a couple of sub-vocal obscenities in Mauhúr’s direction, and gestured me rather rudely to follow them. I stepped around the fire in their wake, and nearly stumbled over what I took to be a heap of boulders on the ground; which groaned feebly.

“Garn! ‘E’s still alive!” said one of the Snaga, “Can’t ‘ave much blood left in ‘im now. Gorn a reely funny colour, ‘e ‘as. You ‘eal ‘im, King, an’ we’ll know yer a proper Sharkū. Otherwise – ne’mind what ole Mauhúr says, we’re orft. Hey – you – Shagrat – wake up! ‘E came – just like yer said ‘e would!”

“Stop that!” I shouted, as the Snaga delivered a hefty kick by way of a wake-up call, “Go and get my Squire. I need lights to work by, and hot water. And I’ve no Athelas. Someone must find out where it grows.”

“What – no stinky herbs, little King?” asked a faint voice at my feet.

“I wouldn’t need any if you hadn’t left your ointment and Orc-draught in my room.” I bent close to whisper, “You should see what the ointment did to that ring you carved on my chest!”

“Can’t wait …. “ but his voice faded into a rather fearsome choke. He coughed up something, spat, and added, “Ointment … no fucking use any more. Must have …. Hands of a King …. healer.”

Clearly he was raving. He must have overheard Ioreth’s oft-repeated saw. I squatted at his side, laid a hand on him anyway, and encountered a shoulder, its once-heavy musculature much reduced.

“They’ll bring torches soon,” I said, “then I can see to work. How deep is it?”

“Went in … lung. Should be fucking dead. Can’t …..”

“Can’t what, Phuineöl?”

“Die. But can’t … fucking live like this. Must ….. you’ll heal me, little King, won’t you?”

Privately I doubted whether my skill was sufficient. I was not Elrond, although he had taught me all I knew.

I had even more doubts once the torches came. The arrow had taken him a bare inch from the heart. My squire came into the light, followed by the two Snaga lugging a steaming cauldron.

“I hear you were asking for Athelas, Sire.” Said Ohtar.

“Yes. Kingsfoil. Could you recognise it?”

“Of course, Sire. I’m Bergil, son of Beregond of the G … White Company. I brought you some of the leaves when you healed the Captain of the Black Breath.”

“Bergil! Of course. Thank the Valar! Do you know the places it grows in? If you find some, bring as much as you can without damaging the roots. Take an escort with swords and torches – Gymer should know the terrain around here.”

“Yes Sire.” he was gone on the word, leaving me to deal with a dying Uruk who, it appeared, was unable to die.

“Well – put it down!” I ordered irritably as the two Snaga hovered over us swinging the cauldron so that the precious water slopped over its rim.

They did so; then squatted down practically under my chin, eyeing me avidly and clearly expecting me to wave a wand or shoot blue fire from my fingertips for an instant miracle-cure.

“Move back! And roll him over onto his side. I can work better that way, and he can breathe easier. Do it gently! No claws or booting allowed! What are your names, by the way?”

One of the Snaga pouted at me. With a jolt, I realised I was knowingly looking at a female Orc for the first time. The male – surely her twin? – scowled.

“Oi, you worms,” came a wheezy whisper, “do as the Sharkū fucking says! They’re Zirak and Zigil, little King. Usually called Zak and Zig.”

“Farkin’ shut it, Shagrat!” screeched the male, “At least our Mama named us! An’ you owe us! Oo’s been eatin’ they maggots off that farkin’ wound for the last farkin’ week, eh?”

“Just MOVE him, will you?” I shouted, “And I’m TIRED of your Orc-talk! Shut the fuck up and let me work!”

They snarled a bit (purely to save face, I thought), but finally managed to get Shagrat rolled from his belly to his side. I took up a cloth, dipped it in the cauldron, and began (for lack of any better remedy) to wash the fearsome wound just below his shoulderblade. Zak and Zig settled at my side, their wide snuffly noses following each movement of my hand so closely that they were almost wiping them on Shagrat’s back.

“What happened, Phuineöl?” I asked, mainly to distract him from the continual drip of congealed matter from the wound.

“Aaah … that’s good, little King. Feel …. Could sleep now …. “

“No! Stay with me .. with us, Phuineöl. Where did you go? I couldn’t find you on the stairs or on Pelennor.”

“Fucking Cupcake ….. arrow burned inside me. Took my heart and made me .. fucking remember things. You kill him, little King?”

“No. But we parted with things unspoken between us. He will return if his Lord will allow.”

“Fucking arrow melted.”

“What? Like a Morgul-blade?” I was interested, “Legolas must have known more than I credited him with. A Morgul-blade makes you into a wraith, doesn’t it? I wonder what Elf-shot does?”

Shagrat coughed, hawking up more congealed blood.

“Makes me Legolas’ sex-slave for life?” he suggested in a feeble attempt at sarcasm.

“Unlikely; or you’d be crawling after him straight into Fangorn. NOT a route I’d recommend. The Huorns know their own strength now; and they’ve some very unpleasant ways with stray Uruks!”

“Dem’s true words, Shagrat.” rumbled a voice from the darkness. I looked up, startled, to find Mauhúr squatted just beyond the torchlight. Other indistinct Orc-shapes sat or lay behind him.

“Tell da Sharkū what he asked!” commanded Mauhúr.

“Says who?” snarled Shagrat weakly.

“I do!” I intervened hastily before this promising exchange burgeoned into a full-scale offensive, “And don’t you dare ask - `you and whose army?’ – because I’ve got several of those as well. So explain – how do you come to be in a dell in North Rohan when I last saw you pitching down some stairs in Minas Tirith?”

“Went up the fucking White Mountain, didn’t I? Followed your scent all the way up to the snowline!”

“The old Hallow, where I found the White sapling? How did you …. ?”

“Stopped bleeding when the arrow melted. Just all this black gunk in my throat, Thought I’d walk till I died. Look at Anor …. But ….. went away before I saw the sun.”

“Went away?”

“Thought I was being pulled back to the old Black Pits. But not cold this time … burning. Saw my own body below … Mauhúr – you fucking know what that means?”

“Yah! Means da Black Pits and da Nazgûl playin’ wid yer! Then – new body – spawn again, or mebbe new-built like dis one I got.”

“Right! But not this time. Not. This. Fucking. Time. Pulled into grey … like cloud, like lakes maybe. Cool. An’ a Voice, Mauhúr. Voice like … water falling over stone at Cuiviénen – remember?”

A low assenting murmur came from every Orc there.

“Voice said to me - `Phuineöl. So you have come to Me at last. You might have come before!’ And I said - `No, Lord. I was constrained elsewhere!’ (Somehow, you have to talk fancy in That Place!)”

He paused, spat again and ran his tongue over his dry lips. Mauhúr snatched a water-skin from the nearest Orc and stretched a long arm to Zak.

“ ‘Ere – give ‘im da water, Snaga. Was it da Lord, Shagrat? Was it Mandos?”

Shagrat took a sip, then a long swallow before replying. Amongst the eight listening Orcs, there was not a sound.

“He didn’t fucking introduce Himself. But ….. yeah. Yeah, I reckon it was. Otherwise, why am I back here in this same fucking crocked-up carcase?”

“So why ARE you?” asked Mauhúr reasonably.

“ `Cos He fucking told me to.” replied Shagrat in some desperation, “Said I wasn’t even fit for The Halls yet. Told me I had to get you lot to listen to me first. Told me to go back and fucking try again – all of us had to fucking try again. `I can offer only the same battered body’ He said, `but remember – the hands of the King are the hands of a healer and so shall the rightful King be known’. That’s the last fucking thing I heard before I woke up back on that fucking mountain. Then a fucking great Eagle came …. “

“Gwaihir!” I cried, “Only he could carry your weight, Phuineöl!”

“So he fucking gave me to understand!” said Shagrat huffily, “Poncy old queen! Claimed to have carried all the notables in fucking Middle Earth in his time – Mithrandir, the Ringbearer, you name it! Anyway, here he brought me; and told me to …. make contact … y’know Mauhúr – put out the thought-call, to anyone who’d heed it. Told me the King would be along too sometime. The old sod was right at that! The rest of this lot showed up in dribs and drabs. Ugly, ain’t they? But the buggers kept me alive until you showed, little King, so I guess I owe them!”

“An’ doan yer farkin’ fergit it, Shagrat!” screeched Zig, but his sister gave his long ear-tip a vicious twist and he subsided with a yowl.

“ `E’s seen Mandos! Even them maggots you ate is sacred!” she whispered like an overboiling steam kettle, and Zig went rather quiet.

“Fuck off, you Snaga!” said Shagrat, embarrassed, “I wanna talk to the Sharkū.”

“What is it?” I asked quietly once the twins had extricated themselves and shambled off.

“I …. Nothing! Just didn’t want them fucking around any more.” he replied with a blatant change of mind.

“Where’s that boy?” I spoke my worry aloud at last, “He’s had enough time to crop o whole meadow of Athelas!”

“ `The HANDS of a King’ He said to me. Never made mention of any stinky herbs, little King.” He sniffed deeply, “Dawn’s coming soon. Think I might stand to greet it at last. Mauhúr! Here – Mauhúr! Help me! I wanna see the fucking sun for the first time!”

“No!” I protested, horrified, “You still have a hole in you! All I could do was keep it cleaned and stop you falling into a death-sleep. Wait for the Athelas!”

“Little King,” he said gently, as if to a child, “I started healing as soon as you touched me. Mandos promised – and he don’t renege! Boys!” he shouted, “I could eat a fucking horse!”

“Not here in Rohan you couldn’t, Uruk!” said someone, “But we’ve some cold venison or new-killed coney over here.”

Peering beyond the half-circle of light from the cressets, I realised that my whole troop had been quietly gathering, listening and waiting throughout the long night. A man shouldered into visibility bearing a large oval platter of cold cooked and raw meat, which he dumped into the midst of the Uruk-hai.

Hardly daring to look, I moved the cloth from the wound on Shagrat’s back. There was barely a dimple in the skin to show where it had been. I gasped suddenly as a wave of weakness took me; and that – more than the visible evidence – convinced me that my healing power had been used to its absolute limit. I felt worse than I had done after wrestling the Palantir from the control of the Dark Lord.

Helped by Mauhúr and Plurtz, Shagrat surged to his feet as I slumped down, drained. My last sight, before exhaustion and imperative slumber took me, was of three dark figures limned in fiery light as the first fingers of sunlight touched the eastern hill, topped it and found them standing there.

* * * * * *  
I awoke in an unfamiliar bed, and immediately closed my eyes again with a groan at the sight of myself reflected in a huge circular mirror set above me in the ceiling.

“Ain’t that just Something?”

“Where am I?” I asked faintly and unoriginally.

“Tower of Orthanc, little King. This is the master-bedroom.”

“Master … you mean Saruman …..?”

I opened my eyes again. The mirror was still there, this time reflecting Shagrat’s unlovely features at its periphery, as well as my own.

“Wonder if Mauhúr knows what he used it for?” surmised Shagrat in a tone of feigned disinterest.

“I don’t want to speculate right now. Are we alone?”

“Yeah, romantic, ain’t it? I wouldn’t budge, see; and since they all seem to think I’m some kinda fucking angelic emissary, they let me be. There’s guards outside the door though; and that boy of yours isn’t too far away. And I wouldn’t trust that Fangorn not to be peering in the window. So …. “

“So, that’s the lot of a King.” I said resignedly, “People everywhere, all the time.”

“The Dark Lord would’ve sent them all off if he wanted privacy.” Shagrat pointed out.

“The Dark Lord also didn’t care who knew what he was doing! I can’t do that, Shagrat. You know that. It was you who gave some anonymous questioner a rather masterly summary of what difficulties the King was about to face, if I recall.”

“Ah-har har. You remembered that! Thought I was being so fucking clever! Didn’t know I’d dug a fucking great pit to fall myself into, did I? Never been in love before.”

“So you’ve come back from the Halls of Mandos in order to tear me in half? Did He know?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I reckon He did. And I will, little King, make no mistake. I’m not so fucking redeemed that I can do all this heroic sacrifice stuff. “

“Just tell me” I said faintly “that you didn’t pull the Luthien option with Mandos. Just tell me I don’t have TWO immortals giving up their immortality for me!”

“No, little King. I need – we all need our time with Mandos. I just bought another lifetime, that’s all. What are you going to do about us … about me?”

I sat up slowly. I’d had all night, whilst he told his tale and I tried to keep him alive, to think this one through.

“I need food and drink. I’m completely burned out. But I’ll answer your question first before all the squires and guards come rushing in here. Is there water?”

“Yeah. Here ..”

He leaned over to hand me the goblet, and I was able to catch him with one swift kiss, as well as to snare the water before he spilled it. He jinked back like a startled maiden, which made me laugh so much I almost choked on the water anyway.

“Now, you listen well, Shagrat. The Sharkū is speaking! I want this honour guard of yours in shape quickly. I want all of you back at Minas Tirith by the time I return there from Edoras with the Queen. I want you fitted with some sort of uniform – it can’t be the winged helmets; that would look silly on your people, and make the real guards think they were being mocked. Then I want you to accompany me when I go down-river to treat with the Corsairs of Umbar. An Uruk honour-guard would be just their mark! It should impress them enormously. I shall arrange it for sundown – then your night-eye people can be there as well as the rest.  
“After that – you’re going back to the Tower of Cirith Ungol. You can go via the road by Minas Morgul, not up the endless stair. I want it invested, made habitable, and the pass cleared. You’ll have to work with Faramir’s people for that – but I want that Spider out. Then – that’s your headquarters. You continue searching for any of your kind who want to join you. You report regularly on whether the plains of North Mordor are becoming habitable and fertile. You make your own treaties about trade and food – without depleting people, or their stock. And one more thing, Shagrat – one very important thing!”

“Yes, Sharkū?”

“I want one room in that tower made fit for a King. I want it ready at anytime when I might …. shall we say … wander a little eastwards from a visit to Ithilien, or take a detour on a state visit to the ex-slaves at Lake Nurnen. Any time, Shagrat. I already have a reputation for turning up unannounced when least expected. So don’t you forget it. Well, those are my terms of service. It’s not going to be easy – the Spider alone could be a fatal prospect, but I can’t think of anyone better qualified to deal with her. Are you going to accept them, Captain Phuineöl?”

“You’re saying ….?”

“I’m saying I’m consenting to have my life torn in two by you, you cursed ruffian. You understand of course, that the other half of it isn’t your business. I want to hear no more talk about Cupcakes. There’ll be enough of them around me at court. Your business is to obey orders, look to those you’ve called – because they’re going to look to you; and have me whenever I’m there to be had. And keep your mouth shut about it! Well?”

“Oh, Mandos! Yeah, of course. That’s my clever little King “

“Good. Now come here and kiss me properly before you open up that door. Varda, but I missed you! It’s a shame we can’t do this mirror business here – but sometime we will. I promise! Just think, Phuineöl, I can spend a whole lengthy reign working out how to arrange trysts with you – all over Middle Earth!”

Notes:

(1) Celeborn’s words: The opening words of this chapter, spoken by Celeborn, are taken direct from ROTK, and belong to Professor Tolkien.

(2) I should credit Richard Carpenter, scriptwriter supreme, for some of the words spoken here by “Gymer”. If anyone remembers the 1980s tv series Robin of Sherwood, this is a tiny crossover-moment

(3) Mauhúr: is a character from Canon, appearing briefly as the head of Ugluk’s reinforcements who tried to attack Eomer’s troop and prevent them from massacring Ugluk’s party.

(4) Plurtz: Please consult the invaluable http://fade.to/orcgasm (Fanfiction Section: Happy Fic Guide), which explains why it is essntial to have an Uruk with this sort of name in any reputable fanfic.

(5) Sharkū: is the Orkish word that Professor Tolkien translates as “old man” when applied (in reduced form as “Sharkey”) to Saruman by his dependents at Isengard. But if Orcs were tribal when left to themselves (as is hinted in The Hobbit and LOTR), then “old man” might also have the connotation of “tribal elder” or “father” of the tribe. I have used it in this sense here, and added a hint of shaman or medicine-orc too. Both Saruman (as a possible geneticist and Uruk-breeder) and my main protagonist (as a healer) would thus qualify for the title as leader AND shaman.

(6) Bagronk: is a Black Speech word meaning “cesspit” (as translated politely by Professor Tolkien. Mauhűr and company would probably say “shitpit” or “craphole”). It’s taken from the curse of the Mordor-Orc in TTT.


End file.
